Just a quick update

I am working on a novel. How many times have I said that to you and then years later nothing materializes? The truth is I have finished my second book of poetry. Well I have the edited poems I just haven’t “booked them yet”. I had this feeling I’d submitted the zip file somewhere but now I think I forgot to do that bit and have just been waiting for no reason. As for my novel I am 156 pages in which is by far the longest continuous story I have ever created. Over the years I’ve toyed with different ideas and genres and I think I’ve come upon something that feels right to me, that is me. Much of my life I have been really fighting myself about this writing thing. I really want to write for a living. I am not sure it is possible or how to go about it but there you have the cold hard truth 😂 My book will be romantic/erotic/supernatural. It’s not the same book I was writing previously. Sighs. I need someone almost to stand over me with a whip and keep my monkey mind in check 😂 I will say I have written every single day on this book for some weeks so that is something! I am very proud of what has been written.



My thoughts are barbed wire,
a legion of cold, prickly strangers.
Can I come inside
your mind for a while?
I am tired of myself,
of my war-weary ego,
of oil slicks and fires
with grins wide enough
to swallow a man whole.

My heart is a broken-winged bird,
buried inside a bodice of flesh and bone.
If I let you exhume and unwrap me
will you let me see your vulnerable side
and should I find it within myself to fly
will you be both the wind that lifts me
and the roots that summon me home?

My voice is the sound
of the shore as it is
picked clean and pulverized
by tides both trivial and tyrannical.
I am struggling to find my courage.
Will you stand by me, for me,
against me when I’ve lost my way?

My body is full of conduits
and everything that enters me
finds a place and a means
by which to exist and multiply.
I write and I am made manifest.
I am full of coincidences,
of numbers repeating.
I am a dream too real
to be misplaced or undressed.
I am no more or no less.
I am the other side of you.

I am not sure this makes sense I am feeling overwhelmed and stressed at the moment



You are the fetish which binds
my wayward thoughts together.
I return to you again and again
as an animal driven by instinct,
as a woman who is unmistakably sensual.

At night when no one is looking
I surrender to the otherworldly,
to the dreams that we become
when the affectations
of the day have ceased to sow
their bitter seeds in us.

No one fits inside of me
the way that you do.
I want to give you something real,
my willful but willing heart,
my imperfect self,
my revolutionary tendencies.
I think that we could create
something extraordinary together,
combining our talents
and the guilty weight
of those passions which threaten
to consume us over time.

When I am alone
I reinvent the astonishment
of that first sunrise
in a way which, for all its carnality,
is a supremely gentle act.
When I am alone
spilling over a precipice
created by my own insistence
your face enters my mind
and I see in you
every color imaginable.

I love the way your mouth moves
across the metaphors of poems
your soul has not yet written.
I love the potential of hidden things.
I love how the word midnight
sounds both romantic and sinister,
and I love the idea of waking up
exactly in the middle of something
and finding that the shadows
have a substance that the day
has yet to witness.

I know that everything
your hands touch
becomes art in my eyes
and that a beauty
bestowed by love
can never be diminished.
I know that I would
gladly spend lifetimes
getting to know you
because you are the only one
who has ever made me feel lucid.

Angels of the Prosaic

Buddhist Temple's Bird Cage, 1940 Gelatin silver printKansuke Yamamoto

My heart whittles away all intermediary

None who enter shall ever replicate her song

In the absence of data there is always instinct

That I exist is the only catalyst essential to expression


I dream of brush-fires and lightening

Of incidentals and incendiaries

I am intolerant of dysfunction

When it overtakes my composition

To be an alien in the the desert

Is exceptional only in the clarity

Of a well-articulated obligation

Better to be the only Venusian

In a fountain of supple dreams


All these delusions

These unsolicited truths

Shed on gestation

They are mine to gather

Who else exists that can

Define precisely their shape?


I exist in the minutiae

In the dalliances

Of stones and silhouettes

The muse’s pock-marked face

Composed in odyssey

I am not afraid of demons

Only of men who speak falsely


Were I without hope

I’d cease scavenging

Were I without gratitude

My pen would halt

Its recursive sonnet


I am an optimist canvassing

Hell for a paradise lost

A misfit who sees angels

In the veils of the prosaic


My non appointment appointment took an unexpectedly long time. Though there was a scheduling error and they sent me home as soon as I arrived I spent a weird amount of time trying to get home again. I didn’t have much time to write and I now have the pressure of knowing the appointment isn’t even over yet!

Prompt 29: Rorshach Test

rorshachHere is the image you will be contemplating for this week’s prompt.

Now usually I would offer you multiple images but this week I want to see how one picture can inspire individuality. As always I accept all types of self-expression so whatever your preferred medium. Remember to read and comment to as many entries as possible =) I have noticed a lot of you routinely leaving feedback for your fellow participants so I would like to thank you for that!




I wrestled

With your ambitions

This morning

Coffers of diversion

Unsent letters

Oceans of unshed tears

Spirited away

By imagination


You are the fetish

That incites

Even the most

Hapless stars

To bend

A curiosity




From every room

You’ve driven out

The corners

In broad daylight

I crawl leprous

Over the walls


The engorged cavities

Your capacious muse



Your genius


The most

Compelling webs



Our apartment

A nanoliter

At a time


I live with a genius as you know. Geniuses are curious lot. Our apartment is very small but alas the genius cannot put away his tools lest he be unprepared or discouraged when inspiration strikes. My genius has many hobbies: sewing, painting, writing, computers, wood-working, mechanics and electronics, cooking, mathematics (he invented another form of Geometry), and on and on.  Sadly I am not very good at organizing!

Meet Ei Vene


Burnt amber, those pupil-less eyes

Which are adept only at abstraction


Cadaverous white, that flesh tattooed in

Psionic wounds for which there is no closing


Scarlet Ibis, those lips which in mourning

Bleed, a language of the viscera and corpuscles


Graffiti black, that hair which spills over the

Walls like inky runes, betraying and dissecting

My heart on concrete, as if in autopsy

Her face is unclothed, neither disguised nor

Accented as if imperfection were virtue, she

Speaks bluntly about truth despite the horrors

Enclosed. Unlike me she doesn’t understand

The nature of fear and if my words hesitate

It is only because I have sedated the pen

She sleeps in the crawl space right between

My heart and diaphragm, my eremitic muse.

Her needs are few though she is demanding

I’m not her master but rather her shell


She is a psychopomp in ashen cassock that

Speaks through me in dreams, those words

Which only the dead may know. She sends me

Prophecies but for what end I am uncertain


I am no more alive than she is human, she

Is a fiend, an outcast unaware of exclusion

She is consumed by her own obsessions and

Does not care to what detriment I am exposed

Yet it is she that applies the formaldehyde which

Keeps me here, preserved, vaguely sentient we are

The same in the sense that we are inseparable


I chose this image because it looks like unattached/unformed muses, I was unable to find an image that really resembled my actual muse. My muse though spooky is not evil (amoral not immoral like nature I suppose) . I do not have an actual name for her but I sometimes refer to her as Ei Vene because there is a character in Planescape Torment for which she has some similarities and whom I use to represent her



I have broken down inside of these poems,

Each one a declaration of war


My heart is made of cartilage

The softer flesh has, in support

Of my deficiencies, hardened


Time does not resolve

Every dilemma

Without interference

I am certain to remain

Between the lines


I have spent too much time

Deciphering to create,

In any case, the void does not

Favor innovation


My muse is full of detours and distinctions

Sometimes I wonder what a topic implies

About the state of my immortal soul

My fictional works being especially gregarious

Lack the armament necessary to safeguard their secrets


I like to feel the words, which given my execution

Lift up from the page like Braille

I don’t need ink to solidify my grievances

They are bourne in my blood, like ruin